


drown this queen

by badAquatic



Series: Trailerstuck [98]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human/Troll Society (Homestuck), Ancestor-Era (Homestuck), Ancestors (Homestuck), Background Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, Fan Offspring, Illustrated, M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Ancestor-Era (Homestuck), The Condesce - Freeform, The Grand Highblood - Freeform, Underage Drug Use, just so you know, non-sexual hypnosis, not for sexual reasons tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23315377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badAquatic/pseuds/badAquatic
Summary: Just as Feferi reaches the breaking point—just as the rest of you are tired and wondering if this will ever work—things…click into place. That's when you all decide that there's no time like the present. You need to take this chance before the opportunity slips between your claws.It’s time to drown the queen.
Relationships: Sollux Captor/Karkat Vantas
Series: Trailerstuck [98]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/31686
Comments: 35
Kudos: 29





	1. aid to the princess

**Author's Note:**

> The warnings for the fic will be in specifically marked chapters (ie towards the end). Be safe, my dears. 
> 
> Alternia was a horrible place. 
> 
> \-- badAquatic

**== > Be Karkat on Sunday**

The Peixes trailer has never been a sterling example of cleanliness, nor a complete chaotic sty like the Captor-Pyrope-Ampora trailer. Sure, there was always a box here, a crate there, but there was room for movement.

Not anymore.

Opening the door wider to accommodate for your post-adult molt bulk knocks over a stack of small cardboard boxes, with the bric-a-brac on top being the first thing to plummet. You spend the next five minutes righting things—returning scribbled in notebooks and paperbacks to where they had been until your arrival.

The clutter continues into the living room: boxes pushed into the corners and settled on furniture like pigeons. Not even half are sealed with duct tape, which makes moving through the makeshift alleyways even more precarious.

“But I wanna _go with you!_ ” Momeju whimpers.

The cardboard monoliths block your sight but not your hearing. You squeeze between brown towers and peek around a corner to see Meenah faced with a violetblood kit.

Meenah shakes her head. “Sorry, kiddo. This is something grandma has to do on her own. I’ll come visit and bring you back stuff, okay?”

“But what if you never come back?” Momeju sniffles. Pale purple tears run down her round little cheeks. “What if you _forget_ about us?”

You still think Momeju is a grade-A brat (even more than Arthat, who at least has the excuse of being a Serket), but a _very_ small fraction of your heart goes out to her. The kit isn’t whining about sharing or being nice to Dmitry. Her concerns are genuine and combined with the tears and misery on her face, its heartbreaking. 

Meenah tries to comfort her granddaughter but Momeju runs off. She quickly navigates the cardboard maze and slams her bedroom door, muffling her sobs. Meenah sighs, standing in the living room clutter.

You’re still unnoticed but don’t want to spend the entire visit feeling awkward, so you clear your throat. When Meenah looks at you, you try to lighten the mood. “So…Momeju _finally_ put it together that you weren’t coming along for the move?”

Meenah does a casual one-shoulder shrug, as if this entire situation isn’t stressing the fuck out of her. “Li’l guppy overheard me talking to some travel agencies,” she says. The fuchsiablood points to a stack of travel books on the couch. “Thought she figured it out earlier, but I forgot she can’t even _read_ yet.”

The travel guides have vivid photogenic covers and you recognize some locations: New Fiji, Summersend Archipelago, Derse, Indie, and Epsilon. Out of all the guides, the Epsilon one is the thinnest. You don’t know much about the country so you flip through _Trolldor’s Essential Epsilon._

“Picked out a place yet?” you ask. The guide only provides sparse information of Wikipedia article length: a varied climate due to a diverse landscape, semi-arid to subtropical climate, various states, and territories, and a whole slew of natural hazards common to lower equator countries.

“Thinkin’ on New Fiji.” Meenah says, “Mom says it’s nice and it might be cool to hang wit’ some other seatrolls, y’know?”

You guess that would be nice given the sparse seadweller population in New Jack. You keep flipping through the guide book and see pictures of Epsilon’s wildlife (cassowary, mountain grimalkin, treetrudgers of various size, zebra) and lush landscape photography of woodland forests, mountains, rivers, and beaches. It’s not until the very end of the book that you see people: Altish adults nocturnally farming while lusii dote on young children. Strip malls at sunset with sparse clusters of trolls and humans traveling the streets but not much else. There’s no shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, nor are the streets crammed with vehicular traffic. Daytime pictures show a vacant city in an almost post-apocalyptic manner.

Seeing that gives you an odd creeping sensation between the shoulders. You think you’d go crazy having to travel through such a weird, isolated country. You immediately put down the guidebook.

“Sounds less like a vacation and more like an _Eat, Cull, Love_ situation.” You say, waggling your eyebrows at your aunt.

“Oh yeah, ‘cause I’m totally into the whole prayer and sleeping with random dudes thing.” Meenah snorts.

(You have a feeling that Meenah, like most people, thinks that the “love” part in _Eat, Cull, Love_ involves anonymous sex, but now isn’t the time for that correction.)

“I dunno what I’m actually gonna do.” Meenah continues, “I just up an’ realized I’ve been kidding myself by staying in one place. I was never meant to do… _this_.”

The fuchsiablood gestures to the trailer and its symbols of stationary domesticity: Momeju’s finger-paint drawings taped to the wall, framed pictures of Feferi as she grows up under the shadows of New Jack’s skyscrapers, the large heavy furniture, and cabinets of full of familial treasures.

“I’ll miss the munchkins but this ain’t me.” Meenah admits, “I’m gonna live like—gods, I don’t even _know_ how many years—and I can’t spend it all in _one place_. Y’know what I liked the most about shipbreaking? Just diving down, exploring the waters where no one else could go. There’s a call for some deep water exploring from the arcologies out in the Greater Atlantic. Think I might look into that.”

You roll your eyes. “They’re _still_ after the bottom of Jude’s Trench, huh?”

Jude’s Trench is a massive gulch in the middle of the Greater Atlantic that has an ‘unknown anomaly’ only detected by the low-frequency noises it puts out. It’s the sort of thing everyone from crackpots to scientists get excited for but normal people (like yourself) don’t particularly care about. Since colonization, every government on the planet has been trying to explore it with incredibly limited success.

“Whatever’s down there, it’s worth its weight in boons, I bet.” Meenah says with a big grin, “Now that Fef’s on her own, I can be gone for a long time an’ not worry.”

As Kanaya isn’t moving in with Feferi, you question how Feferi will maintain the trailer or if she’s getting a roommate. You want to ask but you hear the backdoor open. Eridan walks into the living room, wearing his bathing trunks and swerving around boxes.

“Hey, Kar. When’d you get here?” Eridan asks.

“A minute ago. You guys ready?” you say.

Eridan nods. “Just finished prepping.”

“Alright.” Meenah points a thumb at Momeju’s door. “Just so you know, Momeju found out I was goin’ so she’s in a funk.”

Eridan rolls her eyes. “I’ll let her stew for now.”

Meenah and you follow Eridan into the backyard. Kanaya is helping Feferi into the kiddie pool, which has been filled with water from the hose. Gamzee is sitting in a lawn chair trying to stay awake. Yesterday was a day-long Makara-Leijon excursion, so you’re surprised Gamzee isn’t comatose from dealing with his sons and nieces.

You’ve spread out the necessary equipment on a picnic blanket, which you check over: paintball capsules, a plastic culling, a violet-colored cowl stitched by Kanaya, a patch bearing the ancient Alternian character for mutantblood, and all the jewelry Meenah was willing to surrender to the cause.

“You pick out a trailer yet?” you ask Feferi. You learned from previous sessions to keep Feferi at ease with bland conversation before getting down to business.

“I have my eye on a few places,” Feferi says. For this occasion, she’s wearing a swimsuit. (This is a practice session so no need to break out the real things just yet) “Kaiba Street is too close to Park Avenue for my liking and Anderson is too close to the vacant lot.”

“There’s not much for selection, really.” Kanaya says, “Things are getting crowded again with more people moving in.”

“The Germaniums, you mean,” Eridan says.

It's hard to ignore the increasing presence of salted meat and pickled vegetable odors wafting through the neighborhood around dinnertime. If you had more New Jacker pride, you’d be offended at the lack of proper spices.

“Yeah, them leprechauns are everywhere.” Gamzee mumbles, though his eyes are still closed.

“Gamzee, they’re not ‘leprechauns’.” Feferi sighs, “They’re just Germanium carapaces. Attitudes like that are likely why they had to move here in the first place.”

Gamzee’s answer is a half-awake grumble. 

As Kanaya helps Feferi with the jewelry, you help Eridan wrap the cowl around his shoulders.

Meenah twirls the plastic culling fork. “I feel like I’m gonna break this thing.” She mumbles. 

“ _Please_ don’t. It took forever to find one big enough.” Eridan says.

“Should’ve just taken the one from school.” Kanaya sighs.

“I’d rather pay for another culling fork Meenah broke than go back to that hellhole,” you grumble. With Eridan situated, you pin the patch to your dull-colored shirt.

“Same…” Gamzee yawns and cracks his neck, “We ready yet?”

You do another check to make sure everyone is in position before getting down to business.

The session lasts twenty minutes, which is ten minutes longer than last time but still not…great. Feferi screams in Old Alternian, almost yanking Kanaya’s arm out of joint and trying to claw Gamzee’s face off. While the fuchsiablood is raging, Eridan brings her out of the trance. You’re still astonished how quickly Eridan can send Feferi down and pull her back up, like—well—a fish dancing on a line. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he was a trained mesmerist. 

Once Feferi has recovered from the trance, Kanaya and Meenah help her inside—leaving Eridan, Gamzee, and you to clean up the mess. You gather the equipment while Gamzee dumps the kiddie pool water into the street. Most of it got splashed on Gamzee, so he towels off as Eridan and you go inside the trailer. Gamzee and Eridan may not be scheming to murder each other, but they’re still not comfortable around each other. The only reason Eridan feels comfortable having Gamzee around _at all_ is that both Feferi and you are here.

The first thing Eridan does after putting away the equipment is approach Momeju’s door. You stand in the living room, having a clear line of sight to what may happen—offering emotional support more than anything since Momeju isn’t _your_ daughter.

Eridan knocks at the door. No response, but neither of you were expecting one.

“Momeju?” Eridan asks. Still no answer. “Momeju, we’re done with our session. You can go see Mommy if you want.”

“Go away!” Momeju snuffles.

Eridan sighs and sits outside the door. As this might take a while, you decide to sit on one of the sturdier-looking boxes.

“Momeju, I know you’re upset about Grandma leaving, but she’s not gonna be gone forever.” Eridan continues. His voice is a lot gentler and more patient than you’ll ever be able to muster for the little brat (even if you do feel sorry for her). 

No response.

“Momeju…” Eridan opens his mouth, then closes it as he debates about what to say next. When he speaks next, it's in a lowered voice, “…what’s this really about?”

There’s more sniffling before Momeju speaks. 

“Daddy…” she mumbles, “…is Grandma leaving ‘cause I’m bad?”

Eridan is momentarily slack-jawed before shaking his head (though the gesture is meaningless since the kid can’t see it). “Momeju, Grandma is going ‘cause…she needs a vacation. Before you were hatched, she worked so hard for so long to take care of your Mommy that she’s just tired. She’ll come back soon.” He pauses, “Who told you that you were bad?”

“…people.”

“What people?” A murderous look crosses Eridan’s face and if there’s one person you currently feel bad for at the moment, its whoever made Eridan’s daughter feel this way. Momeju doesn’t respond with names though, so the look of death eases on Eridan’s face. “You’re not bad, Momeju. You’re…well, you’re _little_. You’re little and you’re still growing and learning. Just ‘cause you act up doesn’t make you a bad kid. I love you and Grandma loves you too.”

The door swings open, colliding with Eridan’s face. While the violetblood is reeling from the impact, Momeju runs out and wraps her arms around his shoulder. Eridan sighs, rubbing his aching nose but still taking the time to soothe his daughter—stroking Momeju violet-and-black hair and whispering words in Old Alternian. The girl doesn’t burst into tears as you expected but clings quietly. Eridan carries the kit to the living room couch and holds her until she nods off from emotional exhaustion.

Eridan kisses the top of his daughter’s head. “Poor kid. This was probably eating at her all day.”

You get off the box you’re currently crushing, hoping that whatever was stored inside of it could tolerate your weight. “She looks like Fef, but when she panics, she sounds just like you.”

Eridan smirks. “Violetbloods are made of hair dye and anxiety.” He doesn’t stop running his fingers through Momeju’s hair. Her violet-dyed streak is thicker than Cronus or Eridan’s and you question if it’s from Feferi’s genes or a mutation made more prominent with each generation. “Just happy ‘Meju has me instead of Dualscar.”

You’re terrified to think of how Dualscar would handle Momeju’s inferiority-based anxieties. Then again, you don’t need to think about it. You just need to recall how Eridan behaved for most of his life until he got a clue after dropping out of high school.

“Like you’d let that old bastard near your baby girl.” You say.

“I wouldn’t let _anything_ young and helpless near him.” Eridan scoffs.

Kanaya comes out of Feferi’s bedroom to let you know that Feferi has recuperated, but then she sees Eridan holding onto Momeju.

“Is she okay?” Kanaya says, fretting with the concern of a not-quite-but-almost stepmother.

“Just scared. You know how she feels about Meenah.” Eridan stands, still carrying his daughter, and walks to the bedroom.

Kanaya sighs in sympathy and touches Momeju’s head. Momeju mutters but remains asleep as you relocate to Feferi’s bedroom. The temperature of the slime must be turned up high because the room smells of sopor’s plastic and burnt onion odor. You’ve almost forgotten it since you’ve been sleeping dry for so long and even then, your sopor was typically chilled due to New Jack’s intolerable heat.

Gamzee has taken over Feferi’s daybed, lying flat on his face. Meenah is sitting next to the bed and you can tell from the tension in her body language that she’s fighting every parental instinct to tuck Gamzee in like the overgrown, dangerous child he is.

“I’m not even _that_ tired,” Feferi grumbles, looking at Kanaya.

“It ain’t gonna kill ya to unwind, Fef…” Gamzee mutters into the pillow. 

“You’re barely awake, hypocrite!” Feferi huffs. Gamzee answers with a half-awake snort and turns his head. The fuchsiablood sighs and looks at Eridan and you as you take a seat on the floor. “How did it go?”

You look at your iHusk’s memo pad. “We got up to twenty minutes before things got messy.”

“You didn’t throttle me this time, though,” Eridan says, which is a huge improvement. You don’t miss the early days of physically throwing yourself over Feferi because even Gamzee was having trouble maintaining a grip on her. You also don’t miss your neighbors calling the cops.

Feferi isn’t pleased with the news. She looks at the bruise on Kanaya’s arm that’s slowly turning a rotten shade of green.

“Did… _I_ do that?” the young fuchsiablood mumbles.

“No. You didn’t do anything. _She_ did.” Kanaya insists. Feferi frowns but her matesprit continues, “I know you’d never hurt me, Fef. However, _she’s_ definitely a huge bitch. Are you sure you’re sharing a body with an ancient sea-queen and not a drunken frat boy?”

That earns a small, brief smile from Feferi. “If that were the problem, I could flunk her out of school or take her out of the will, or _something._ ” she sighs. She looks back at Eridan and you, “Are you sure we should keep doing this? What happens if you can’t bring me back and _she_ takes over?”

“Not gonna happen,” Eridan says, firm as iron.

“We’re making progress.” you state, “Before you couldn’t go five minutes ‘under’ and now you’re up to twenty. We’re beating her back. It’s just going to take a while longer.”

“You remember anything ‘fore you lost control?” Meenah asks Feferi.

When the sessions first began, the biggest hurdle to conquer was coercing Feferi into recalling the ancestral memories instead of suppressing them. Suppressing the memories, according to Eridan, was just giving _her_ more of a ‘hold’ over Feferi. Talking about what Feferi saw/remembered helped…but that gave you nightmares of your own. The fuchsiablood memories are brief but nightmarish. You’re not sure if you could hold onto your sanity if you had to see and experience what Feferi had. Compared to your grandfather’s visions, you got off lucky.

Yeah, Old Alternia was miserable but your grandfather wasn’t outright malicious and bringing you along for the accursed ride—whether you wanted to or not. 

Feferi’s eyebrows knot in concentration before she responds. “It…it was the water.” She says, “There was something about it that wasn’t right. Maybe it was the color? The temperature? I remember being in a lot of pain and being angry.”

“Angry is that bitch’s default state,” Kanaya says.

“I bet this is just more ‘magical’ bullshit from _her_.” Meenah scoffs.

Eridan hands you Momeju so he can turn his attention to the paper piles on Feferi’s writing desk. What had once been used for homework has now been downgraded toward being covered with an assortment of photocopied papers and transcribed works from Old Alternian and what scraps of East Beforan still remain. The copies are marked up with highlighter from both Feferi and Kanaya while the books are pristine as they have to be returned to Aranea.

“Any info from your mother on the Despisal?” Eridan asks Meenah.

Meenah shakes her head. “Every time I ask her, she changes the subject.”

“Can’t blame her,” Kanaya says.

“And it’s not like we can outright tell her what we’re doing and why we need it.” you sigh.

Outside of your group, you’ve kept Feferi’s sessions under wraps. Feferi and Eridan didn’t want to instill false hope if it didn’t work out. You didn’t want your friends and family knowing because, even though they’re all generally tolerant of various shenanigans, you don’t want them to think this will be another misadventure where you sink someone’s trailer. (A misadventure that you place squarely on the shoulders of Rose and _definitely_ not yourself.) 

“…maybe it ain’t right…” Gamzee mutters though you can only guess at the words. It's so garbled the purpleblood may as well be eating the pillow.

“What’s that, Gams?” Feferi asks.

“I _said_ ,”—and Gamzee sits up on his elbows, although his eyes are still shut—“that maybe the water you in ain’t right? Like, we’re talking ‘bout a long time ago on a different planet. Like, the water could be different or something.”

Before you can ask for clarity, Gamzee flops back down and returns to his passed-out state. Gamzee is an idiot most of the time, but occasionally he saves up enough brainpower to grasp genius before it slips between his claws.

“That’s…actually a good point.” you say, “Maybe we can’t use regular freshwater? At the aquarium, certain fish have heaters and different kinds of water. Maybe Feferi needs warm, saltwater?”

“We’re not tank fish, Kar!” Eridan huffs.

“I thought seadwellers could survive in fresh and saltwater?” Kanaya asks.

“We can _do_ freshwater. It's just not ‘comfortable’. It's hard to explain.” Meenah says, “It’s a good idea though. I can ask Mom about the water on Old Alternia without bringing up any bad memories. I hope, at least.”

It’s still weird to you to hear Meenah refer to the Condesce as ‘Mom’. When you think of the Condesce, Her Imperial Condescension, the Tyrian Tyrant and one of troll history’s greatest monsters, you think of an evil towering figure with a penchant for sadism and torture. You don’t think of a fuchsiablood who enjoys baking and is still floating around, despite being banished to legend along with many figures of Alternia (with several historians debating her very existence due to lack of evidence).

You still have no idea what your kind-of Grandmother is like compared to the other Old Alternians, but you’re not going to press for details. Given your grandfather’s memories of her being equal parts evil and sweet (with huge gaps of time between both personality arcs), you’re going to avoid her for as long as possible.

With the after-session powwow over, you decide to call it a day, albeit informally. Eridan is still comforting Momeju, Feferi is about thirty minutes away from sleep, and Gamzee remains passed out. Kanaya has decided to start dinner and Meenah, instead of returning to the task of packing, asks you to follow her into the backyard.

Outside, the fuchsiablood leads you to the corner of the yard where the sunflowers have grown nearly to the height of your elbows. Meenah pushes them aside and pulls a tarp off an object, shaking off rainwater and insects. Under the tarp is a car that you have, in all honesty, completely forgotten about. It’s not in terrible condition but sitting around the yard has not done it favors. Tallgrass has twined itself around the back engine and into the metal grill.

Your grandfather’s car. Forgotten in the chaos of daily life, but still existing.

“I’m nigh-immortal, but even _I_ think I’m too old to go back to the past.” Meenah runs her fingers on the windshield, smearing the accumulated layers of pollen and dirt. “I can’t reclaim what Dad and I had, or what Kankri and I once had, but maybe… _you_ could do something with it.”

You take one look at the car. Honestly? You should sell it for scrap. The car’s older than you and was only used for the wanton destruction of demolition derbies. You can’t even remember what needs to be done on it. Was the engine not running? Did it need expensive parts? It is an old model, after all. It’ll be months before its road worthy, let alone _inspection_ worthy.

You really _should_ give it away…

You _really, really_ should…

But…

But, your vascular pump aches at the thought. No. ‘Ache’ is too gentle of a word. It _hates_ the idea of giving away this ugly monstrosity of a hovering automobile. No, this tarnished piece of automotive engineering is a part of your family. It’s one of the few objects that holds good memories for Meenah, Kankri, and your grandfather.

You learned a long time ago that good memories are few and far between in the Vantas lineage. You want to make new, even better memories with it. Still, you know jackshit about cars, but you conveniently live with someone who does.

“I’ll let Jade look at it.” you say, “She’ll know if it can be salvaged.”

Meenah exhales and the tension sags out of her body. “Thank gods. I _really_ didn’t want to pay to have this thing hauled away.”

You laugh because you know that’s bullshit. The last thing Meenah needs to worry about is boons. Meenah is just the sort of person who would rather pretend a problem concerns the bottom boondollar than admit she was attached to a hunk of junk.

You send a message to Jade and although she doesn’t have a truck like Jake, she knows how to haul anything with enough creativity. Twenty minutes later, the woman arrives with her SUV, some chains, and Nessie under her arm. You think Jade originally intended for Nessie to learn something about cars, but the tiny human has zero interest in doing so. The second Nessie sees you, she runs over and attaches herself to your leg. Jade (resigning you to your child clinging fate) starts work on hooking up the former demolition car to her SUV.

Meenah takes a good long look at Nessie. She’s seen the human child at a distance but never so close and never so physically attached to you. It must be a strange sight: you, a hulking ebony-colored troll and this chestnut brown toddler with poofy hair treating you like a lost duckling.

“Are human babies _always_ like this with you?” Meenah asks.

Before you can answer, Nessie pipes up. “I’m not a _baby_!” she insists.

“How old are you again?” you ask.

Nessie wavers and then looks to Jade for help.

“You’re a year old,” Jade says as she secures the chain connecting her SUV to the demolition car.

“Yeah!” Nessie sticks out her tongue at Meenah. “So _there_.”

“There what?” Meenah mutters.

“It’s not worth trying to understand.” You sigh. You limp to the backdoor and shout inside, “Eridan, I’m taking off. You staying or going?”

“Staying!” Eridan shouts back.

You figured Eridan would want to spend more father and daughter time with Momeju. Jade gives you a lift back to SHEV in her monster of a car and once at home, she drags the demolition car onto the front lawn. She must be practiced at it because she skillfully navigates around the sprinkler and stray toys.

“Oh, are neighbors are going to _love_ this.” You had hoped to spend your life avoiding the stereotype of the redneck family with car parts on their lawn. So much for that.

“Hey, it’s our property and it’s not going to be there forever,” Jade insists, “and Dirk and Jake are still using the backyard to skin and stuff that aquatic hoofbeast.”

The aquatic hoofbeast had been a rare find (according to Jake) so more care had been taken in the “preparation” of it. You have done everything in your power to avoid looking at the makeshift abattoir in your backyard.

“Isn’t this technically the landlord’s property?” you ask.

“Yes,” Jade acknowledges, “but there’s nothing in our lease agreement saying we can’t have our _own_ property on the lawn.” Yet again, it sounds like she’s talking from experience.

Once the derby car is in position, Jade gives it a look over. Nessie circles around Jade, asking questions until Sonny Jr. shows up and her attention flies. You stand next to Jade as she observes the car’s stabilizer jets, side-wall protectors, and whatever other parts make the car function because you’re fucked if you know how any of this works.

Lastly, Jade looks at the engine and then at you. “How much do you know about cars?”

“About as much as I could glean from _Trollzformers_.” you say.

“Well!” Jade cracks her knuckles and grins, “This is a good time to learn!” She pats the hood. “It’s actually not as bad as it looks. You need to scrub the aft perpetual resonance housing and then de-clutter the magnetic emitters before it’ll hover above and maybe realign the pulse signatures.” She rubs her chin. “I think you could do with a new CO2 scrubber and the photonic filaments look old.”

You stare at Harley.

“I’ll get you a book,” she decides, “but with a little work, the car should run and pass inspection. And, hey: no car loan payment!”

That’s the best news you’ve heard all day. Between rent and Arthat, your paycheck is stretched enough.

You grab Nessie and follow Jade inside the trailer. Dave is either visiting Rose or upstairs and Arthat is sitting in the living room with the TV off, reading. You’re glad he’s out of his bedroom, but you’re still worried. After his evening with Vriska, he’s been more quiet than usual and you have no idea what to do about that.

“You have a guest!” you say to your son before plopping Nessie onto the couch next to him.

“Oui, oui…” Arthat mumbles and turns a page in _The Count of Monte Cristo._

“Arthat!” Nessie giggles and tackles the kit in a hug. “Let’s play!”

Arthat, now unable to ignore his new companion, looks at the girl and then you. “ _Que!?_ ” he shouts.

“Have fun, kids!” you say, trotting behind Jade.

You follow Jade to the old storage closet, which Dave and you have started calling “Jade’s lab”. Jade laughed at the name but didn’t deny it. Dave and you had focused so hard to make sure the trailer was ready for the baby that Jade informally claimed her own space separate from Nessie. The hydroponics garden, the maggots and earthworms, Bec’s bed, Jade’s old futon, and other items from the old Harley trailer wound up in here. There is also the hodgepodge of items that a home accrues whenever small children and animals are present.

While Jade looks through her desk (which she has warned Dave and you from messing with under any circumstances), you notice a new addition to her decorative wall: a poster of what could be a regular Ghostbuster if not for the furry fox head. (Seems like Jade, unlike what she said in middle school, hasn’t truly outgrown her furry phase.)

“Where’d you find this thing at?” You ask, pointing to the poster.

“I commissioned Nepeta.” Jade says, “Originally I was just doing it cause Rose said she wasn’t getting a lot of business and it would cheer her up, but she’s actually really good!”

“Rose and Nepeta are hanging out?” This is the first you’ve heard of it, though you rarely hang out with Nepeta nowadays. You both work on different schedules and your quads don’t interact. You should speak with her since she was one of your few friends before hooking up with Strider but… _eh_. You never had similar interests.

“I’m just glad Rose has another girl friend.” Jade tosses a stray Manthro Chap, likely placed in her desk by Nessie. “They both understand the whole ‘single Mom’ thing and their Dads aren’t really…altogether.”

“John’s not a deadbeat.” To be fair, Gamzee isn’t either but he’s far from ideal when it comes to fathers. It’s a sad statement that out of all the purplebloods you know, Kurloz is father of the year.

“John’s not ready to be a parent.” Jade sighs and tosses two squiddles on the floor. “We gotta get this girl a toy chest. She has toys _everywhere_.”

“It isn’t helped by Dave _constantly_ getting her things.” You say, “How is Egbert doing?”

You haven’t visited John while he’s in rehab. You have enough sad memories of visiting nursing homes and seeing old humans and trolls losing their memory and senses as the life dribbles out of them. You don’t want to add to the misery by seeing John in that condition. 

“He’s…well, not ‘all there’. Not yet.” Jade sighs, “He’s still slurring his speech, his memory is awful, and he needs crutches, or he tips over. The only improvement is that he can feed himself now. Soft foods but still, it’s an improvement.”

“So, another year in rehab?”

“Maybe. They’ll know by the end of summer.” Jade’s words come out as a low murmur. Her hands are still on the desk, but she’s paused in her search. Her brain’s been on autopilot until now—until she had to think about the physical and mental deterioration of her best friend.

You touch her shoulder. “John’s made it this far. He’s not the kind to sit around, even when the doctors want him to.”

“That’s for sure.” Jade brushes your hand off with a grin. “Alright. Sad Jade time is over.” She looks back at the desk. “Oh, _there_ it is! Right under…” The woman sighs as she removes yet another rogue Manthro Chap from the desk.

With the last of the wayward toys on the floor, Jade hands you the manual: _Auto Repair for Dummies (Hovercar Spinner Model Edition)._ The cover is creased and fading and flipping through the pages rewards you with a shower of cookie crumbs. A strange odor also wafts from the paper.

“Oh goody.” You grumble, “Yet _another_ thing I have to air out. Was Nessie flipping through this and eating again?”

“No, that…that’s likely from Grandpa.” Jade says, “It was one of my bedtime stories when I really little. We’d sit in his big armchair and he would tell me all about how to repair cars and computers.” Jade’s green eyes drift to the same armchair sitting in the corner of the room; stained with baby spit-up and smelling like old milk from when Nessie was a fussy infant.

“That’s…interesting.” You say, as neutrally as possible.

Jade looks at your face and laughs. “Oh my _gods_ , Karkat! You don’t have to pretend it’s _not_ already weird! I already _know_.”

“I’m the _last_ person who should be scoffing at someone’s family.” Just thinking about your family tree gives you kudzu-inspired nightmares. 

While shaking out the remaining crumbs, you realize that (aside from what you’ve gleaned from Dave and Jake), you don’t know much about Jade’s life before it got tangled up in yours. Out of everyone, she’s the only person who had a close relationship with her grandfather or even _had_ a grandfather in her life.

“So, your grandfather taught you gardening too?” you ask, “Seemed like he was into the whole ‘be prepared in case society breaks down’ thing.” It’s hard to forget the boons you paid to secure the old man’s storage container of doomsday prep items.

Jade shakes her head. “I didn’t know about the doomsday stuff until he…died.” She strokes a dreadlock, as she often does when speaking about worrisome subjects. “I think Grandpa didn’t know what to do with me. Nannies always took care of the babies, so he only had vague ideas of what I needed. He gave me any books he thought would be ‘helpful’.”

You wouldn’t be surprised if your grandfather had to consider the same thing, given his mishandling of Kankri. “Were they?”

Jade makes a wishy-washy gesture. “I learned a lot about tech, but people are…” She shrugs. “You can’t put two people together and expect sparks to fly. Well, sparks flying is _bad_ for electronics, but you get what I mean.” She smiles, “People aren’t _exactly_ like machines and that used to bother me, but I realized that…that’s _okay_. I may not _get_ a lot of things, but I have friends to help me. Though, it _really_ helps to have girl friends to tell you stuff too!” She laughs at that.

“What do you mean?” Immediately, you regret asking. This conversation is inching dangerously into the unknown foggy lands known as ‘human female problems’.

“Well, uh…” Jade flushes as if she’s suddenly recalled that you’re a male troll who doesn’t exist in the same spheres as she does. “It’s like when you have your heat cycle, or you have to deal with coldbloods. There are just _certain_ things you need to talk about with other warmbloods. You can’t get that from a book.” She laughs but it lacks the jollity from before, “When I, uh, hit puberty Grandpa didn’t know what to do so he gave me this weird old book. It was called—let me think—oh yeah!” She snaps her fingers. “ _A Young Lady’s Illustrated Primer._ It was about human female stuff, but it was super outdated. Talked a lot about ‘lying back and thinking of Young Britain’. Stuff like that.”

“Sounds hilarious. It’s like that book they gave us in health class instead of talking about condoms and consent.” Your memory of high school is getting foggier by the year, but you’ll never forget the health class book. It was titled _The Cool Kid’s Guide to Abstinence!,_ and had a skateboarder on the cover holding the Tome in one hand and giving the thumbs-up with the other. Terezi had made copies of it, scribbled shades on it, and asked Dave if it was a relative.

“Man, I haven’t thought about _Young Lady’s_ in years.” Jade grins, “I should find a copy and show it to Rose on girl’s night. I bet she’d get a kick out of it.”

You’re a little envious that Jade, Rose, and all the other women get to have their own ladies’ night where they drink and (very likely) complain about their spouses and children. Maybe you should do something like that with Tavros and Eridan, pending that you can find sitters for your rambunctious brood.

You smirk. “Look at us. Talking like two old friends who are banging the same dork.”

Jade nudges you with an equally smarmy smirk. “Hey, he’s _our_ dork who pretends to be a hipster cool kid.”

There’s a shout from the living room and the sound of something tipping over. Jade and you exit the lab to discover the chaotic living room: Sonny Jr. is running in a circle in his attempts to pull a ribbon off his tail. Khanie and Suxxor (you have no idea when _they_ showed up) are wrestling on the floor, having already tipped over a lamp. Nessie is smearing the walls with golden glitter. The only one who hasn’t moved from their initial position is Arthat, who is still reading his book.

“What _happened_ in here?” you ask.

“Je know nothing,” Arthat says, turning another page.

It takes Jade and you the entire afternoon to untangle this situation and clean the living room. You call Sollux to pick up his wandering offspring, dump Khanie back on Dirk and Jake in the backyard and let Jade handle Nessie (who pitches a fit before being exhausted into a nap).

Lastly, you face Arthat.

In the chaos of the living room clean-up, Arthat relocated to his bedroom. The sun has started to set but he’s already changed into his pajamas. These aren’t Snippy’s neatly folded pajamas, but something the ceruleanblood has picked off the floor and decided it had another night’s worth of wear in it. Snippy is being a doting custodian, moving Arthat’s items into neat little piles and then folding Arthat’s freshly laundered clothes. (How the insect manages to fold clothes better than you will always be a personal insult)

Arthat is lying on his bed and, for once, is not reading. He’s staring out the window through the blinds, not even moving when you enter.

“Hey…little guy,” you say in your softest voice, “You alright…sport?” You still haven’t cemented on an exact nickname for Arthat so you’re cycling through them.

Arthat doesn’t tell you to go away but he doesn’t welcome you either. However, his silence is different from the angry wall he usually puts up. This silence is different. Solemn, almost. You initially thought it might have been something Vriska said or did but, according to Kanaya, Vriska has been the same way. “Mournful” was how the jadeblood put it, and honestly? It fits. Arthat wasn’t there for custody talk, but he’s not stupid. Hell, he’s one of the smartest kids you’ve encountered. He must sense a great change on a horizon—the end of an era in regards to his daily life.

You don’t say anything. You sit in a nearby folding chair, letting Arthat have his space. You listen to Nessie breathing in her corner of the bedroom, dead to the world since she sleeps like a log. After ten minutes of silence, you decide that Arthat doesn’t want to talk right now but that’s fine by you. You get up out of the chair and approach the door. Just as your hand is on the knob, Arthat sits up.

“Wait!” Arthat orders. You stop at the door and look at him. “Que…que est Kanaya like?”

You thought Arthat would grill Vriska about Kanaya but he’s asking…you? Wait, is Arthat asking you for advice? Just to be sure this isn’t sarcasm at work, you look over your son’s face one more time. His words are huffy and demanding as usual, but his face is troubled. He’s scowling but it's with apprehension, not annoyance.

“Kanaya is one of the nicest people I know.” you say, “She never hesitates to help, no matter the trouble. Though, she’s not ‘soft’ like the jadebloods on TV. She could take down anyone with words or fists.” You pause, “Now that I think about it, _none_ of the jadebloods I know are like the ones in the movies.”

“Oui,” Arthat says with a nod, “Kanaya est nothing like the jadeblood woman Troll Tyler Perry plays.”

You haven’t thought of Troll Madea since you graduated. He had been a special target of mockery and derision amongst your class, not helped by Troll Madea enacting Eastern stereotypes and attitudes.

“You’ve watched Troll Medea?” you ask, with a smirk.

Arthat’s cheeks go cerulean and the kit folds his arms as if you caught him with his pants down. “Non!” he insists, “J-Je just see the commercials on TV! No troll of intelligence would be caught watching such dreck!”

“It’s ridiculous how they’re still making movies for it.” You agree. You’re certain Porrim could have lengthy, Kanrki-worthy discussions about the harm Troll Madea and other jadeblood stereotypes do to society. “What do _you_ think about Kanaya?”

“Moi?” Arthat seems more surprised that you’re even bothering to ask his opinion. He looks down, with his eyebrows knotted in confusion. “Je…do not know.”

You nod. “That’s fine. You don’t _have_ to decide whether you like someone right away or not.” Arthat still looks unsure but you can’t force him into accepting Kanaya. You get out the chair and pat Arthat on the head. He doesn’t shirk away, although he glares at you for the touch. “Dinner is going to be ready soon, champ. I’m cooking it’ll actually taste good.”

Last night’s experiment with Jade’s bacon seitan had been a disaster on both a flavoring and gastronomic level. You lucked out with your stomach, which has been iron-coated since surviving Cronus and Kankri’s meals. Dave and Nessie weren’t so lucky.

Arthat decides he’s had enough of your father-son togetherness and swats your hand away. “Que est with everyone touching mon hair?” he growls.

“It’s 'cause you’re adorable.” You insist, which only angers the kit further. You’re glad to have Arthat back to his normal, bratty self rather than him being mopey. Save that for his teenage years, when all he has to look forward to are school and hormonal awkwardness.

You go to the kitchen to prep for dinner. Cooking has a twofold purpose in your trailer now: keeping the kids from driving you up the wall with hunger and practicing for work. Tonight, you’re working on chicken francaise. According to Droog, you’ve yet to perfect the Nehetalian delicacy of ham and white wine lemon sauce. It’s a pain in the ass but you refuse to be defeated by bar food ordered by drunk frat kids, who have the worst palates out of anyone (which includes drunk clowns).

You keep an ear out for Arthat, but he doesn’t leave the bedroom. The only interruption to your cooking is a message from Sollux on your iHusk:

TA: hope youre doiing alright, you biig crab.

You roll your eyes. Leave it to Sollux to refer to his flush quadrant with nicknames befitting his size queen tendencies.

CG: I’M FINE, YOU BIG BEE.

TA: ii’d rather be a bee than a crab. at lea2t bee2 make honey and polliinate flower2. what do crab2 make?

CG: THIS CRAB MAKES YOU WET.

TA: oh gro22. you’ve been hangiing around human2 two much.

CG: YOU KNOW YOU FLUSH ME.

TA: ii don’t know…that me22 of a piickup liine ii2 giiviing me 2econd thought2.

CG: I’M CALLING BULLSHIT! I TOLERATE YOUR BEE PUNS AND YOUR FETISH FOR MULTIPLES OF TWO, BUT WHEN I THROW A PERFECTLY GOOD PICKUP LINE AT MY MATESPRIT’S FEET, YOU TURN UP YOUR NOSE. YOU’RE JUST LIKE YOUR SON WITH HIS VEGETABLES.

“Karkat, are you burning something?” Jade calls from the living room.

You curse as you realize your matesprit’s antics have distracted you from the chicken breast, which is sizzling dangerously close to burnt in the frying pan. You quickly flip it over and go back to messaging your matesprit.

TA: karkat?

TA: …burniing diinner agaiin, ii 2ee.

CG: FUCK YOU! I’M ONLY COOKING DINNER! YOU SHOULD BE WORKING!

TA: ii’m on break.

CG: SOLLUX, YOU WORK FROM HOME. YOU DON’T HAVE BREAKS. YOU JUST CODE FOR FIVE MINUTES AND SPEND THE NEXT FIFTEEN PLAYING OVERWATCH.

TA: ii wii2h. the iinternet connectiion ha2 gotten 2o 2hiitty, ii’ll be glad not two be kiicked out of the lobby. mt’2 been biitchiing about iit 2iince the he’2 been gettiing dropped out of cod matche2.

TA: though that may be a ble22iing. ii had two take away hii2 adult priiviilege2 2iince they got really crazy wiith the miicrotran2actiion2.

CG: YIKES.

CG: YOU TALK TO THE CABLE PROVIDER?

TA: yeah, but the problem’2 on our end. what wiith all the con2tructiion goiing on, they’re rewiiriing and redoiing god2 know what. iit2 liikely two iimprove once con2tructiion 2top2 but god2 know when *that’ll* happen. iin the meantiime, iit2 fiine for work but not good for anythiing iinten2iive liike gamiing.

CG: HOW’S STREAMING?

TA: 2tutter2 a biit.

CG: THAT SUCKS.

TA: iit doe2, but ii diidn’t me22age you two complaiin about my fiir2t world problem2.

TA: kk, how are thiing2 wiith vrii2ka?

CG: UGHHHHH.

CG: WHAT DID ERIDAN TELL YOU?

TA: he triied not two tell me anythiing but he 2tiill look2 exhau2ted from 2unday. momeju and dmiitry haven’t been huge paiin2 iin the a22 lately 2o ii fiigured iit had 2omethiing two do wiith your whole 2iituatiion.

You had hoped to avoid extensively discussing the situation with Vriska and Arthat. Yes, Sollux is your matesprit but you’d rather not drag him into your personal family drama when he has his own to deal with. Before answering, you check over the chicken and add cheap slices of ham to the mix and stir. It’s not exactly Nehetalian approved ingredients, but it’ll do the job for now. 

CG: NOTHING BIG HAPPENED. WE JUST RESOLVED THE WHOLE CUSTODY THING. ARTHAT IS GOING TO LIVE WITH KANAYA SINCE PORRIM AND RUFIOH ARE MOVING OUT.

CG: I…I THINK WE MADE THE RIGHT CHOICE.

CG: I KNOW ARTHAT DOESN’T LIKE ME, SO I CAN ONLY HOPE THAT WHEN HE’S OLDER HE’LL…UNDERSTAND.

TA: ii’m 2orry about thii2, kk. iif ii’d known what tz and vk were up two, ii could have been able two 2top thii2 me22 from happeniing iin the fiir2t place.

CG: SOLLUX, IT’S NOT YOUR FAULT. I CAN SEE NOW THAT THINGS BETWEEN VRISKA AND ME IN REGARDS TO ARTHAT WERE GOING TO BOIL OVER INTO SOMETHING UGLY SOONER OR LATER. TO BE HONEST, IT COULD HAVE ENDED UP A LOT WORSE. VRISKA AND ME HAVE AN UNDERSTANDING NOW.

CG: AND AS FOR TEREZI…

CG: I DOUBT TEREZI AND I WILL EVER BE AS CLOSE AS WE WERE BEFORE, BUT I…

CG: I UNDERSTAND WHAT SHE DID. WHY SHE DID IT. IT ANGERS ME BUT I *UNDERSTAND* IT. I DID HORRIBLE THINGS WHEN I WAS UNDER SERGEI AND MELIAK’S INFLUENCE. WHEN YOU THINK YOU HAVE ONLY ONE PATH OPEN TO YOU, YOUR VIEW GOES NARROW AND YOUR CHOICES MAKE PERFECT SENSE, BUT ONLY TO YOU. IT’S A LIFE OF EXTREMES.

CG: I THINK IT WASN’T YOUR SISTER’S ACTIONS THAT HURT ME SO MUCH AS NOT *TELLING* ME. I KNEW OUR MOIRAILEGIANCE WASN’T AS STRONG AND, LOOKING BACK ON IT, WE MADE IT UNDER IFFY CIRCUMSTANCES, BUT IT WAS *OURS* AND IT GOT US BOTH THROUGH A LOT OF THINGS. I DIDN’T WANT TO LOSE THAT.

CG: I THINK…

CG: I THINK WHAT REALLY HURTS IS THAT I WOULD HAVE *HELPED* TEREZI AND VRISKA IF THEY HAD JUST LET ME IN.

You’re not shocked as you type it out. The thought has been percolating in the back of your mind since that night—that angry, red night where you just let loose on Terezi and, by extension, Vriska. It wasn’t the act of going behind your back and using Arthat in their schemes that hurt so much, as the process of it.

TA: why would you help them?

CG: BECAUSE I LOVED THEM, SOLLUX! I LOVED THEM BOTH AND THEY WERE MY CLOSEST FRIENDS. YEAH, I WOULD HAVE BITCHED ABOUT IT AND SAID IT WAS A BAD IDEA, BUT I WOULD HAVE FOUND SOME ALTERNATIVE. 

CG: THINK ABOUT HOW WE SURVIVED THE CHERUBS. HOW WE ALL PULLED TOGETHER WHEN WE WERE UNDER LITERAL FIRE. GIVEN OUR COMBINED INTELLIGENCE AND RESOURCES, WE COULD HAVE FOUND A WAY TO GET THOSE DOCUMENTS. MAYBE WE’D STILL HAVE TO DO SOME BREAKING AND ENTERING BUT AT LEAST OUR KIDS WOULDN’T BE INVOLVED! AND THERE WOULDN’T BE THE DANGER OF SECURITY CAMERAS OR EYEWITNESSES.

TA: what do you mean?

CG: BREAKING INTO A LAWYER’S APARTMENT? THOSE GUYS ARE ALWAYS PARANOID. THEY HAVE TO BE IN ORDER TO SURVIVE. TEREZI MIGHT HAVE HER WEIRD SIGHT-SMELL-TASTE THING ON BUT SHE’S STILL FUCKING *BLIND*. THERE’S NO WAY SHE CAN PICK UP ON INFRARED OR DETECT ALARMS. IF THE FILES SHE WAS LOOKING FOR WERE FROM A COMPANY, THEY SHOULD BE A MATTER OF PUBLIC RECORD. EVEN IF THEY’RE SHREDDED, YOU CAN USUALLY FIND DUPLICATES AT THE LIBRARY AND IF NOT THE LIBRARY THEN THE ACTUAL COMPANY HEADQUARTERS! YEAH, IT MAY NOT GIVE THE SPEEDY SOLUTION TEREZI WANTED BUT IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SAFER AND MORE LEGALLY SOUND.

CG: SINCE TEREZI *TOOK* THOSE PAPERS, THAT RAISES THE QUESTION OF HOW SHE OBTAINED THEM. THAT MEANS A JUDGE CAN THROW THEM OUT IF THEY SIDE WITH THE COMPANY AS TO THE QUESTION OF THEIR LEGALITY. EVEN IF THE JUDGE CONSIDERS THEM, THERE COULD STILL BE CONSEQUENCES FOR TAKING PART IN CORPORATE ESPIONAGE.

TA: 2ound2 liike you looked iinto thii2.

CG: YEAH, I DID BECAUSE I WAS PISSED! I ASKED KANKRI ABOUT IT TOO AND HE AGREES WITH ME ABOUT THE LEGAL RAMIFICATIONS. THIS COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED IF THEY’D JUST HAVE FUCKING *ASKED* ME TO HELP.

TA: there’2 nothiing you can do about iit now, kk. iit’2 out of your hand2.

CG: I KNOW BUT IT STILL PISSES ME OFF! 

CG: ANYWAY, I DOUBT TEREZI, VRISKA, AND I WILL EVER BE AS CLOSE AGAIN, BUT I THINK THAT’S FOR THE BEST. WE’RE DIFFERENT PEOPLE NOW AND OUR LIVES ARE HEADED DOWN DIFFERENT PATHS. CERTAIN PEOPLE JUST GROW APART AS THEY GROW UP. IT’S PART OF LIFE AND ITS HONESTLY WEIRD HOW CLOSE WE ALL ARE AS FRIENDS AND FAMILY. AFTER GRADUATION, MOST PEOPLE TEND TO MOVE ON AND MOVE OUT TO BIGGER AND BETTER THINGS.

CG: LOOK AT ARADIA. SHE’S OFF DOING ALL KINDS OF THINGS WITH HER LIFE. IF EQUIUS DECIDES TO MOVE FROM NEW JACK WITH HER, I WOULDN’T BE SURPRISED. HELL, MAYBE IT’S FOR THE BEST.

TA: ii mii22 her a lot.

CG: I MISS HER TOO.

TA: iit feel2 liike we’re lo2iing contact wiith a lot of people. liike, what’2 nepeta even up two?

CG: ACCORDING TO JADE, SHE’S HANGING OUT WITH ROSE. THEY’VE GOT LIKE THIS WHOLE ‘SINGLE MOM’ VIBE GOING ON, EVEN THOUGH ROSE ISN’T SINGLE JUST THAT EGBERT’S BRAIN IS ON THE FRITZ BUT STILL.

TA: alriight, ii’ll let you get back two your attempt2 two make ediible food.

CG: I’LL LET YOU RETURN TO PRETENDING YOU’RE WORKING.

TA: oh, and hey, kar.

CG: YEAH?

TA: ii do liike totally flu2h you though. don’t ever thiink that ii don’t.

CG: OH MY GODS. I FLUSH YOU TOO, YOU BIG INSECURE DORK.

TA: you’re the iin2ecure dork!

You’re not sure which one of you is more insecure. You think insecurity has to be on a sliding scale for proper measurement. 


	2. transforming the months

Summer is a season of constant whiplash. At work, you’re taking orders, serving drinks, or standing by as people debate splitting up checks with different levels of civility pending on who the group is made of. You refill drinks as frat boys and diehard sports fans alike cheer for or against different teams and indulge in the semi-legalized gambling that is fantasy football. Every task has to be accomplished at breakneck speed and gods help you if someone’s order comes a minute too late or their Bloody Mary is missing the crawdad (despite no one _ever_ eating it).

At home, the mood is slow as dribbling molasses into ice milk on a cold morning. Dave works on various assignments late into the night and can rarely be disturbed once on task. Jade is usually out and takes Nessie with her to visit John, check on Rose, or to the park. The relative peace of the neighborhood allows you time to simultaneously unwind and repair your car.

Once Dirk and Jake finished butchering most of the lusus, Jade hauled your car into the backyard. You prefer working on the vehicle there since you have easier access to the shed and the tools within. Along with the manual, Jade supplied you with video links and online instructions on how to restore the car. You’ll be lucky if you get the vehicle running by the end of summer, but you’re optimistic.

You also get an unexpected visitor. Arthat shows no interest in the car (or you), but Khanie pops up. At first, the tealblood kit is wandering around—playing in the mud, enjoying her army men, doing her own little taxidermy projects—but she slowly drifts toward the car. Her large gray eyes stare at it and you’re not sure if it’s the horrid spectacle of the car’s rust and dents that seize her attention or the sight of you doing something outside besides mowing or walking Sunny Jr.

Khanie spends her time observing but waits for two whole days to speak to you. 

“What’re doing?” Khanie asks.

“Fixing this monster of a car.” You’re sanding rust off the side of the vehicle. You’re not even close to repairing the corrosion. When Jade had said the bulk of the work would be just getting the car ready for paint, she wasn’t kidding.

“It’s ugly.” Khanie states.

“Definitely.” You smile, “That’s why I’m going to fix it.”

Khanie’s eyes go wide, taking in this information, and then looks at the tools you have laid out on the grass. “You don’t have enough tools for that.”

“How would _you_ know?” you snort.

“’Cause the car is _really_ ugly,” Khanie says.

It’s a fair point but you still roll your eyes. “I’ll get them as I go along.”

“Dad says you need the right tools right away or things go to shit quickly.”

“Are you offering to _help_ me then?”

“No way!” Khanie then runs off before she can get roped into aiding you.

While Khanie seems averse to hard work, she doesn’t stop hovering around the car whenever you work on it. She’s helpful on occasion, mentioning if you’re using the wrong tool or turning something the wrong way. You could do without the bratty attitude, though.

The weeks go by with amazing fury as the car steadily transformers from a lump of rust and ugliness to a somewhat acceptable vehicle. It’ll _never_ be as nice as Dave or Jade’s cars, but it’ll get you from Point A to Point B. It’s also wider in the back, which is good news for when you need to haul kits around without hearing someone complain about being cramped.

Vriska visits Arthat and takes him on short day trips. She’s always supervised by Aranea or Kanaya and you get text updates on where they’re going and what they’re doing. You think such nannying is overkill, but you are glad that Arthat and Vriska aren’t left to their own devices for too long. When Arthat returns home, he’s tired but he snipes at you a little less and he smiles in his sleep.

You still haven’t talked to Terezi. You have other concerns, like helping Feferi. The process of helping Feferi takes a long time, longer than you initially thought. There are plenty of mishaps—spilled water, paint going everywhere, and Feferi nearly tears Gamzee’s throat and you have to pull her off. Just as Feferi reaches the breaking point—just as the rest of you are tired and wondering if this will ever work—things…click into place.

On an especially hot July afternoon, Feferi remains in her trance and doesn’t leave it until Eridan brings her back up. There’s no screaming, scratching, or biting.

“Its time.” You decide.

Everyone else agrees.

It’s time to drown the queen.


	3. funeral for the damned

**== >Be Karkat several weeks into the future**

Kanaya, Feferi, and Eridan had scoured local maps and hippies for information as to where the ceremony will take place. (You hate calling it a ‘ceremony’ but there’s no more applicable word) New Jack is full of lakes, rivers, and other tributaries but few of them are isolated or lacking natural and industrial debris. You don’t want to exchange Feferi’s mental freedom for hepatitis.

The drive to the most remote part of South New Jack is long. You drive past the solar farms and wind turbine fields that make up most of Reynoso’s landscape. You turn off the main road, kicking up dust and rocks as you hover along. Kanaya turns into a dusty street hidden from direct sight by a cluster of trees. Behind that is an area surrounded by fencing, saying the land would be the future site of condominiums. Rusting dredging machinery lies in the tall grass with weeds clinging to it. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the condos aren’t coming anytime soon. 

You park the car among the trees so any backpackers or Altish don’t immediately see it if they happen to pass by. You also hope no one sees you in general; not because they might call the cops for trespassing but because of how you’re dressed. Eridan insisted the costumes were necessary (as to make Feferi’s mind feel more cemented in the past) but you feel fucking _goofy_ wearing traditional Alternian garb. Admittedly, you had to wing it with some of the designs—going off the research Aranea provide you with, terrible reenactments from History channel specials, the photos Sollux and you rescued from your excursion at Darkleer Manor, and Kanaya’s imaginative needlework. 

“I look like a bellydancer who ran out of money halfway through their costume,” you say.

“Hey, you wanna trade for these weird-ass arm warmers?” Gamzee gripes and scratches at the purple and black striped arm warmers that are part of his costume.

“Gamzee, stop scratching. You’re going to get fabric everywhere.” Kanaya says. 

“But it _itches_!” Gamzee whines.

“At least you ain’t wearing this weird-ass unitard.” Meenah grunts. She’d been fine with playing her mother until Kanaya brought up the attire of said mother. Why the Condesce, all-powerful interplanetary tyrant, chose a sheer bodystocking as her iconic fashion, you’ll never understand.

“It’s only for a little while,” Feferi says. Kanaya has to help her matesprit out of the car so she doesn’t trip on her dress.

Feferi’s clothing is the most ornate—billowing pink, green, and blue silks and the copious jewelry befitting a queen. You’re certain that if anyone happened upon the sight of you and your friends doing the worst of traditional Alternian cosplays, they’d think you were in a cult with Feferi as the sacrifice.

Gamzee and Kanaya lead Feferi into the water. Eridan follows closely after, making sure Feferi is comfortable as she eases into the water. Meenah is with her, running claws through her daughter’s hair and yet being careful not to disturb the flowers braided through it. The flowers had been Feferi’s own idea, something she insisted ‘felt right’ for the long-dead queen.

You go into the lake last. It takes you longer to adjust to the chill of the morning lake water. Normally you’d be bitching but it could be a lot worse—you could be doing this in December, rather than July. You push against the whinging thoughts and keep focused. This is no longer a rehearsal. This is the real gambit for Feferi’s mind.

Eridan is whispering words of calm reassurance to Feferi. You don’t know if it’s in Alternian or if the noise alone is keeping her at ease. The fuchsiablood’s eyes are clear, not hopeful or afraid but somewhere between. She breathes slowly and awaits the moment when you start extricating the festering rat that is the Despisal out of her mind. She shuts her eyes and her body goes rigid.

Eridan looks at the rest of you and one by one, you nod back.

“Feferi, can you hear me?” Eridan asks.

“Yes,” Feferi says.

“Picture the crescent. Across from it, see another. A staff crosses through both. Two crescents together. Bound, yet untouching. Two fish on a rope. All is fuchsia as your blood. Do you see it?”

Feferi shudders. Her eyes move under her lids, searching for things unseen.

“Yes.”

“What do you hear?”

“Water.”

“What do you see?”

“Stone.”

“Where are you?”

There is no response.

“Feferi.” Eridan repeats, “Where are you?”

Feferi shakes lightly and then her eyes open. Her pupils are blown wide, dilated with things not seen.


	4. limnad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, you know those warnings I posted about earlier? 
> 
> Its this one. This entire chapter is all those warnings. You can just skip it if you need to. The next chapter will show the end result.

**== >Karkat: Be Feferi **

“Feferi, can you hear me?” Eridan asks.

“Yes,” Feferi says.

The water is cold, but the humidity eases the discomfort. Everyone around you sweats miserably in the July heat but you are unsatisfied. Your biology craves for more heat—the intense warmth of a dying sun—of something intolerable to humans and most trolls.

“Picture the crescent. Across from it, see another. A staff crosses through both. Two crescents together. Bound, yet untouching. Two fish on a rope. All is fuchsia as your blood. Do you see it?”

The symbol hangs above you—threatening you with its shape. It is massive, covering the veil of darkness behind your eyelids. It is a culling fork; an ancient thing from a dead culture but you know _she_ will enjoy that. _She_ will recognize that: the symbol of her oppression and fear.

“Yes.” You say.

“What do you hear?”

The ocean rumbles. It is the roar of a seashell made deafening. The water is restless with an oncoming store that you smelt in your sleep. With the powerful tides come the sea-beasts moving inward and a great change. In the day, as you rest, monstrous waves slap the sides of your hive, built into the cliffs so that you could be close to Mother. 

“Water.”

“What do you see?”

Stone walls etched with cuneiform and where there is not cuneiform, there are glazed bricks in more shades of pink and red than you ever thought possible. There are low reliefs and bas reliefs, crude illustrations that can only partially grasp the majesty of your Mother. There are crenelated buttresses and friezes and every bit of care used in the halls of your hive, and every frieze is your face and every buttress the tendrils of Mother.

“Stone.”

“Where are you?”

The air of the processional hall smells of cardamom—a wonderful and tangy scent that promises the evening meal. Underneath that is your own perfume, made from the oils of aloeswood, licorice, and jade-colored blood. You were skeptical of the East Beforan Mikado’s advice--that jade blood made the best aromatic tinctures--but a sampling from your servants proved her true. A convenience too for there is no shortage of jade maidens at your request--

_Feferi._

Who is that?

_Where are you?_

Wait, who are you?

You are---- --- -- -

**== >Feferi: Be ???**

You rise from the cocoon. Sopor slime runs down your face but you do not lift a claw. Your Handmaiden is beside you and with a moistened ablution trap cleaningplane, she wipes away the encrusted slime. Your pages help you out the cocoon and then begin your nightly toilette. They wash your feet, perfume your skin, and apply oils to your aching joints. Lastly, they work on your hair—long, ancient, and often brittle. For such a task, you must sit in a chair as the pages work in teams to oil, brush, and comb. The remaining pages while slip rings onto your prongs and necklaces around your chug column.

You are the Despisal, although that is a humble fraction of your name. Your true name is Her Excellency the Blessed Guiding Shadow of the Great Moon and Savior-Daughter of the Rift Carbuncle The Despisal Limnad Peixes.

Amongst the pages, you notice an absence.

“Wherefore art our charge?” you ask. In the early evening, your charge should be waiting for you to awaken beside your Handmaiden.

Oh, silly you! Your charge must be in his respiteblock! You leave the chair and ignore the pages (who hover around you to continue your evening awakening ritual) and walk to the adjoining block. You had designed the block for your first charge, whose name you can no longer recall. It is filled with brightly colored balls, cozy snuggleplanes, toys, a large cocoon, and plenty of soft oblong drums.

 _Everything_ a child could ask for and more!

“Wherefore art you, our little darling?” You go to the pile of soft oblong drums but alas!—he is not buried underneath like usual. You look to your Handmaiden, who is always at your side unless you request otherwise. “Prithee, my lovely jade, my most treasured servant, wherefore art our charge? Where has he scampered off to upon this lovely eve?”

Your Handmaiden bows in apology. “That, I do not know, my queen.” she says, “If thy charge is not here, he may dwell in the arboretum, for he is fond of the tubeflora that Her Majesty has so graciously permitted to flourish there.”

“Zounds! We hope he has not gotten himself into trouble!” you say and run off to retrieve your charge.

Your pages beg you to heed the night’s tasks—a tedious schedule of the evening sermon, breaking fast with the cabinet, followed by a battery of meetings—but you have no time for that! Not with your dear charge wandering around your palace-hive alone! Your sweet simpleton is likely to shove tubeflora seeds down his protein chute again, choke on a grubcake, or strain his gander bulbs staring at the moon!

Such a simple darling is absolutely _lost_ without you.

You let your Handmaiden deal with the change in schedule. It is the jade’s duties to deal with matters that you cannot be present for, anyway.

Constructing the arboretum had been the most difficult and yet most rewarding venture in the history of your queendom. Yes, it had taken time to quarry all the stone for the pillars and many lusii died in the process of clearing away the bogs and redirecting the river. Yes, hundreds of servants died so that you could redirect the river—the only source of fresh water in your modest queendom. (Your gilled servants were nearly wiped out from the mudslides come dark season, but who could that foreseen _that_?)

Your servants suffered but it was worthwhile—as are _all_ your decisions! After all, you are the most important troll on the planet. Every other shade hatched serves you as the undisputed queen.

You are also thankful that the project had sent the Infanta northward, getting her out of your horns and busying her hands with the chore of securing stone.

You exit the bricked halls of your palace-hive and exit into the open salt-tinged air of the arboretum. Weeds are starting to poke through the stone paths, so you shall have the Handmaiden scourge the gardening servant for such inattention. You do not follow the stone path though, as your charge has always been fond of hiding from you. You pick up your skirts and wander through thick bushes of Kind-vascular-pumped-flowers and push aside a branch of Strong-bamboo-child. Such vegetations are transplants from East Beforus, peace-gifts from the Mikado in your continued friendly relations between your queendoms.

When you see your charge, your vascular pump nearly seizes. There he is—gangly and skinny purpleblood that he is—sitting in the crook of a branch of a True-plum-blossom-child. The flowers are blooming a healthy red and purple in the early evening, but such a sight does not put you at ease.

“Oh, our darling!” you say, “Please come down quickly! Such a high place is not for thee!”

Your charge scowls but is not one for disobedience. Not anymore. He shall always remember the misery of the collar and chain, which is reserved only for especially naughty charges. You anxiously wait at the base of the tree as he scrambles down the trunk and falls upon the grass with a loud _thud._ Once he is on the ground, you stroke his tangled hair and coo and fuss over him.

“Oh, our sweetling! Forgive thy custodian!” you say, “Thou must grow so bored during the day whilst we must rest. But no longer, our dear! Show us your claws. Let us make sure thy is hale. No stingbeasts have troubled thee? No squawkbeasts? We know how they frighten thee so.”

Your charges’ claws are bereft of blood or juice and you exhale in relief. Not every plant in the arboretum is edible and it would not be the first time for your current charge to swallow something toxic. You cannot count the times your Handmaiden had to administer an emetic while you wailed over his condition.

Still, you did not wish to remove the deadly plants. They were far more beautiful than the ugly bog plants native to your queendom. It is not your fault that your charge is a dullard! Even if you removed the plants, you do not doubt he would invent new ways to injure himself.

“Thou art behaving so well tonight. Not even a bit of fuss.” you say, “For that, two helpings of soma, and then we shall break our fast. Won’t that just be lovely?”

Your charge does not answer, for he is without language. A tragedy really, that you blame on his blood. The simple darling can’t even use the claw-signs your minister of education has seen the blueblood savages use and yellowblood writing is _far_ beyond him. You doubt your charge even understands the _concept_ of language.

You take a roll of soma from your girdle and break off two tablets, handing it to your charge. Soma is a wonderful invention of your tealbloods servants—distilled from soporific plants and seawater, congealed under the abrasive sun along with the bricks and seaweed racks. It is the only way you can manage your newly acquired purpleblood servants.

Your charge stares at the pills. For all of his good behavior as of late, he is still skeptical of soma.

“Our darling, don’t be like this now,” you say. You stroke his hair and for once, he does not flinch. “If thou begins to act like this, we shall believe thou dost not love us anymore and dost not want us culling thou. But that certainly can’t be true! After all, _we_ have cared for thee since thee has hatched! Thou cannot certainly forget that it was _we_ who found thou abandoned to the scrublands by thine own people. And it was _we_ who commanded that thou be cared for by my very own Handmaiden with the Infanta, for she was in desperate need of companionship! And it is _we_ who cared for thou when we learned thou was too crippled in mind to take for thyself upon pupation. And it is _we_ who keeps thou, even though thou is older and should have been dismissed long ago!”

Your vascular pump threatens to burst through your chest with the joy stirring within your body. You rest a frond upon his handsome lips, staring into his deep purple eyes.

“Oh, Gamzee…” you sigh, “We _love_ thee! Dost thou love us?”

Your charge says nothing. Gamzee shows his love and loyalty by swallowing the tablets without complaint. You couldn’t be happier, for he is always a good troll once he has taken his soma. You swallow your own tablets and feeling mutually bouncy and carefree, exit the arboretum together.

Still, the duties of a queen cannot be held at bay. Once you return to your halls, the pages assail you with the schedules and arrivals. You could not care less. For now, the world is made up only of you and your lovely charge. It is a return to the early days when Gamzee was within sweeps of adolescent pupation and was at his most beautiful and agreeable. Your vascular pump wishes to weep as you let your Handmaiden oversee Gamzee, for now, you must retreat to the inner sanctum. Even though he is your most precious charge, he is not allowed to witness your fuchsia mysteries. That is only between you and the Infanta.

As the beautiful night eats away the harsh day, you must begin the nightly rituals in the church. You journey to the inner sanctum hidden in your palace hive, welcomed by a trio jadeblood maidens who make it their home. You drink their offering of jade blood from a clay bowl, then take the libations of fermented lusus-milk, and lastly anoint your eyes, lips, and cheeks with jade-colored blood and oils. Then a maiden presents you with your culling fork and you leave the sanctum. You move through a narrow winding hall and enter onto the ovular arena of your church. 

Your church was the first structure built when you came to this new land. As is demanded by your faith, it is open to the air and lies at the summit of your cliffside palace-hive. It is a crescent-moon shaped amphitheater so that all your servants may have a clear view of your glory. High up in the stadium seats are where the lowliest servants reside—the apiarians, the aeronauts, the gannekers, sempsters, and so forth. The highest of your servants are in the first rows closest to the arena, resting upon stone pews placed in a water-filled trench. Here, your favorites look upon you—your charge, your pages, your ministers and advisors. Only your Handmaiden is not present, as she works in the halls and awaits on your signal to attend her own duties.

And to the far back of the amphitheater is a stone dais and upon this dais the effigy of your mother—The Lady of Gl’bgolyb—carved in wood and pouring seawater from her multiple teats. The salt-tinged water pours upon the dais, filling grooves and sliding backward—beyond the pillars that make up the rear of the amphitheater and plunging down the cliffs. Back into the ocean. Back to mother.

“Oh, our glorious servants! What a wonderful and sublime night this is!” you cry to your assembly.

The amphitheater vibrates with the pleased humming of your congregation. Some lowbloods are overwhelmed with your holy spirit and faint. Tealblood ushers carry the fainted for the alcoves where they may regain their decency in private.

You speak on the glory of your queendom—which is physically small but spiritually grand compared to the heathens surrounding you. You praise the morals and spiritual strength of your allies in East Beforus on their many islands. You hush the concerns whispered in drinkblocks of border skirmishes, invasions, and food shortages. You give them hope for the Infanta’s experimental rocket launch going off without error. (You believe the Infanta’s obsession with void exploration is just grubbish folly but your advisor suggests public unity between yourself and the Infanta rather than strife)

At sermon’s end, your Handmaiden presents you with saltwater and herbs while ushers drag the night’s offerings into the arena. You recognize some of tonight’s offerings—highbloods who have failed in their culling duties by letting their charges be killed or runoff, lowbloods who attempted rebellion or espionage and dismissed charges. The remainder is a mix of trolls who have been caught speaking or committing heresy.

“Sweet Mother, blessed Rift Carbuncle, gifted to us from beyond the furthest stars,” you pray, “Sup upon the blood of our enemies, offered by thy most loyal servant and beloved daughter. Dearest Mother, drink and eat thy fill and grace us with another night at thy greatest mercies.”

You begin the sacrifices, using your culling fork as you always have. Some of the offerings are most undignified, cursing you or Mother as the life leaves their bodies. Others are willing, praising your name and your queendom as they accept their lot in life. With the hard work done, your ushers attend to what remains—using their sweeping implements and push the bodies to the cliff-edge of the amphitheater. The corpses plummet from the stone, slapping against the surface of the roiling sea below. You stand at the edge of the cliff, still rainbow-hued and slippery with blood. Mother’s ivory tendrils move underneath the dark surface, dragging down her meal.

You can only hope she will be sated until the next night, or you shall hear her Song sooner than you ever wish for.

With the sermon ended, the amphitheater slowly empties. Backmann and redsmiths must return to their hives to break their fast with a meal of bread soaked in wine and chutneys. Your own digestive sack gives a rumble, anxiously to see what your culinary-inclined servants have prepared for you. You approach the first row, ready to take your charge by the hand and lead him to the fastblock when another troll pushes their way through the group. 

“My queen, a word.” says the troll. His lime-flushed face is haggard from years spent at the western border, suffering the abuses of volcanic air and harsh storms. A patch covers his right eye, gouged out by the treacherous magic of yellowblood infidels.

“Vantas, my dear! Thou appears to be a wreck!” you say, displaying the appropriate amount of shock before returning to proper neutrality. (When one is a holy queen, one cannot appear _too_ shocked and must always be in control of Her emotions.) “And thou is dressed most improperly for the church. If we must tell thou once, we must tell thou a hundredfold—armor and weapon are not appropriate in our holy presence if thou is not an usher of our rituals!”

The limeblood nods, acknowledging his fault. “Forgive me, thy Holiness. I had just arrived at the break of the evening and rushed here to speak with thou. My news is urgent and only for thy Holiness’ auricular sponges to witness.” 

For all his boldness, not even Vantas would interrupt the nightly sermon.

“Such news shall be delivered as we break fast then,” you say.

You nod to Vantas and take Gamzee by the hand. Your Handmaiden and your ministers move on ahead, ready to enter the fastblock for the first meal of the evening. Only pages, Vantas, and those few nobles still wishing they were in your favorite follow closely.

“My Queen, such news should be delivered before breaking fast!” Vantas says. He has always been an impatient troll. Even when he had been one of your most handsome pages, he had always been urgent in waking and scheduling. “Surely, as the head of thy armies, I command some modicum of respect! Canst thou not wait to break fast as we discuss matters of thy own _queendom_?”

You stop in your tracks and the pages trailing behind you nearly knock into you from the sudden halt. Gamzee also nearly topples over, stumbling over his feet.

You look at Vantas and give him a beatific smile.

“Vantas. Our dear lime.” you say, “While it is true that thou art the head of our armies, thou art still a servant before the Holy Blood. Therefore, thou art held to the same edicts as any other servant. Is it not enough that we, Holy Queen that we are, invite thou to break fast with us? Is it not enough that we listen to thy words, however piffling they may be?”

Vantas’ jaw goes rigid, but he nods. He bows at the waist, crossing his arms about his chest. “Yes, her Holiness is astute.” he says, “Forgive my disrespect. It has been a difficult time at the border and I have been far from her Holiness and Mother for far too long.”

“We forgive you, dear.” You tug at Gamzee’s hand, for he is prone to staring off into nothing. “Come, my charge. Surely, thy must hunger as much as we do.”

You return to your journey to the fastblock, only to be greeted by another aberration. At the entry of the fastblock is your Handmaiden. Your Handmaiden bows deeply to you first before bowing to Vantas.

“Begging the indulgence of Her Majesty and her favored servants, but there has been an unforeseen event.” your Handmaiden states.

The hand gripping Gamzee’s tightens. The purpleblood squirms but you wave your Handmaid to continue. “Proceed,” you say.

“There has been an unexpected arrival on the part of Her Most Sacred Servant, the Infanta.” your Handmaiden says.

“Which is the news I had been meaning to deliver to Her Holiness as soon as possible,” Vantas says. His voice strains with etiquette forced down to an irritated whisper from an angry shout. “It appears the Infanta has arrived ahead of me.”

You fight the urge to utter a very un-queenly curse. You had been enjoying your evening and now Vantas and the Infanta have decided to slop onto your nutritional plateau like poorly cooked porridge.

“What has Feferi gotten into _this_ time?” you demand of Vantas. At the mention of the Infanta’s name, Gamzee lifts his eyes from the ground. You give him a warning glower and the purpleblood’s eyes return to their proper place. He is your charge and must learn that his place is not alongside the Infanta.

“It is why I wished to linger in regard to breaking fast, thy Holiness.” Vantas continues. He eases closer to you and drops his voice to a whisper. “Last equinox, my spies witnessed the Infanta breaking fast with northern unbelievers. There is no doubt in my sponge that the Infanta will turn traitor, or, worse, seek to undo our most holy traditions. With the approach of the new sweep, the danger has only risen, thy Holiness.”

“What you speak of is heresy.” you hiss, “Even Feferi would not be so bold!”

Yes, the Infanta has always been irregular but she would never outwardly defy you. You had imposed northern isolation on the Infanta in the hopes that she would give up on her grubbish follies of rocketry and magic. Now you have learned that exile has only emboldened her.

No. You will not hear of such speculation now. The new sweep begins with the next lunar perigee. You must focus on maintaining the queendom until then. It is the least you can do for your servants.

“Where is the Infanta now?” you demand of your Handmaiden.

Your Handmaiden gestures to the closed door of the fastblock. “The Infanta has refused all caution and has broken fast alone before Her Majesty,” she says.

The pages gasp, shocked at Feferi’s heresy. You bark a command and they cease gawking long enough to open the door for you and announce your presence.

The fastblock is semi-aquatic, a grand hall built to accommodate both land and sea-dwelling members of your retinue. The floor is lined with stones, dredged up from the bogs to accommodate for the saltwater and hold it back from besmirching the clay packed halls. Plants found growing on the beaches and bogs that pepper your queendom, are strung along the colonnades.

The Infanta, Feferi, sits at the long table in her proper seat beside yours, as she is not so provocative of your anger as to claim your place. She has food improperly heaped upon her nutritional plateau—fried bread, figs, olives, and cheeses from the banquet in the center of the table. Sitting next to her is another servant (Ampora, you believe). Your ministers and advisors are seated and have begun their own small feast, talking amongst themselves about the work to be done in regards to the queendom. At hearing the announcement of your presence, your cabinet removes their hands from their meals and pretend that nothing heretical has occurred.

Feferi continues talking as if your presence means nothing. 

“I’m telling ya, if we wanna make space travel worth it we gotta go faster than light!” Feferi bites into a fig and speaks through a full mouth. “I ain’t just blowing smoke up your asshole, Ampora. Ya saw the papers from the South Beforus Dominion. Psionics are the only way to do it!”

“And I shall reiterate what I said before: those papers are _only_ theoretical.” Ampora states, “On top of that, the studies were conducted _only_ on the yellowbloods of South Beforus. In order to make such an engine economically worthwhile, we would require a sizeable population of yellowbloods to operate it, which we _do not_ have.”

“Then we can just go _get_ some--”

You walk to the head of the table, tugging Gamzee along.

“Feferi! My sweet little Infanta!” you call out, “What have we told thou about planning invasions between our allies _or_ negotiating with heretics? Leave such business to the grown-ups and thy holy queen!”

You move to pat her on the head but Feferi is not a sweet idiot like Gamzee. The young fuchsiablood ducks, refusing to let you get physically close. Feferi scowls at you with open defiance, looking you in the eyes.

“If ya gonna _stay_ queen.” Feferi growls, “Next perigee’s the new sweep an’ that means the full moon. When I ascend, I’m gonna do whatever I can to write my name in the stars.”

You laugh. “The stars? What a _notion_!”

You sit at the head of the table and let your pages arrange a meal on your nutrition plateau. Gamzee sits on the floor beside you, as he is not a member of your cabinet. You do not worry about him though, as your cabinet is always spoiling him with banquet samplings as he crawls around underneath the table.

Such a darling child. _Nothing_ like awful Feferi!

“My, even when thou wast a grub, thou was obsessed with the sky.” You continue. You look at your Handmaiden, “Oh, Handmaid! Thou wouldst tell us how much Feferi would stare into the night, wouldst thou not?”

“Her Majesty is always correct.” Your Handmaiden says. She stands in the corner wit the pages, waiting for acknowledgement. Only after you and your cabinet have had your fill will they be allowed to eat the remainder.

Feferi’s face flushes fuchsia but you continue your prodding. After all, the Infanta has so rudely ruined your ritual of breaking fast. It's only fair that you ruin the rest of her meal.

“What could _possibly_ be out there in the hideous void, our Infanta?” you ask, “What could be there that is not provided by the sanctified ground of our homeland?”

Unwilling to be cowed, Feferi puffs herself up. “What’s so sacred about _dirt_?” She seizes a pomegranate from the banquet and begins peeling the ruby skin. “Our dirt ain’t no different from the dirt the East Beforans walk on, or that dirt the North Beforans mine in. Only difference between our dirt an’ everyone else’s is that we’re _sitting_ on it.”

You gasp and you are not alone in your surprise. Culinary prongs clatter upon nutritional plates and even Ampora seems aghast at Feferi’s callous words. Vantas scoffs and motions for a page to refill his glass with fermented lusus-milk. 

“Feferi, such _wretched_ words!” you say, “If we had overheard such talk in these hallowed halls, we would have thought thou a… _secularist_! Now, now…” You wave a culinary prong at her. “Thou certainly wouldst not want our servants to have wrong ideas hatched in their sponges regarding our sacred duties. The next sweep shall begin soon and such talk is _heresy,_ not to mention _unlucky_!”

You clasp your hands, offering a silent prayer to Mother in the hopes she forgives Feferi’s heretical words. “Upon the next eve, our people shall gather to see which of us shall lead our queendom into the next era. Art thou not glad that finally, we shall enact such a prolific ceremony before not just Mother but _Father_ as well?”

Feferi’s answer is to spit out pale yellow pips upon her nutrition plateau. She has no argument for you, only a silent scowl. You can’t remember the last time you saw a smile on the Infanta’s face in your presence.

You have always been convinced that something was wrong with the Mother Grub in the creation of Feferi. When your Handmaiden told you that not only a generation had survived but that there was a fuchsia egg amongst them, you were overjoyed! When the time came, your Handmaiden led you to the damp twilit caverns so you could behold the mysteries of life. You loved the Infanta upon sight and everything about her filled your vascular pump with joy-- her hair, her perfect moon-blooded color, and the proud look on her face.

But Feferi didn’t love you. Oh no. The moment she saw you, Feferi went on the attack! She behaved like a nibble vermin suffering from parasites rather than a child. You couldn’t fathom such rage. You know from your custodians (Father rest their short-lived souls) that _you_ weren’t such an unmentionable terror!

“There are bound to be some hiccups.” your Handmaiden had said. She coddled Feferi, as the jadeblood was the only troll she would allow near her. “We do not completely understand how the Mother Grub functions. We may never understand it the way that the natives …” Her words faltered and she bowed, “My apologies, Your Majesty--the _pygmy_ _tribes_ —understood it.”

When you first came to this land, it had been infested not just with wretched stingbeasts, bogs that stank like a mountain of load pots, and heretics to the north and west—but with jadeblood pygmies. The sub-trollian primitives had barely mastered fire and farming, preferring daytime hunting in the woodlands. They had been worshipping the Mother Grub as a goddess of reproduction; their brains too small to connect the creature’s meals of genetic material and the eggs it produced. You had only learned about the pygmies (and by extension, the Mother Grub) as you slashed and burned the woods to make your new queendom.

Thanks to the latest blight, the last of the damnable little things have _finally_ died. The only evidence of their existence is the jadebloods of your queendom, descendants of the pygmies culled by those in your cabinet.

“She will learn to love me in time.” you had said, “All young ones learn to do so.”

Even though you are the Despisal and your very words are Law and Truth, Feferi defied you even then. To add insult to festering injury, Feferi turned away from church! From Mother and Father! Feferi’s interests only laid in abhorrent places—biology, engineering, mathematics, and other foreign magics. You can’t fathom it. You’ve prayed and made sacrifices to Father for his moon-cursed wisdom of all things evil and unknown, but there are no answers. Bereft of company for the first time in recent memories, you took on even more culled charges.

“She is but a child, Your Majesty.” your Handmaiden had assured you, “Her indulgences are temporary.”

Sitting in the fastblock under the glare of Feferi’s defiance, you realize your costly mistake. Your holy queendom needs stability and that cannot come from an Infanta with a chaotic sponge and her lookstubs to the void.

Yes. Feferi must die and another Infanta hatched and this time, properly groomed by yourself. For the sake of your servants’ future, Feferi must not survive the new sweep.

Once the decision has been made, a considerable burden is lifted off your shoulders. You savor your meal and supplement your wine with soma. It's hard to make a fuss when soma is dissolving in your blood, easing your most mountainous worries into small hills. When the meal is complete, you rise from the table and the rest of your cabinet and Feferi follow. (Once the queen has finished eating, no one else must remain at the table. Such an act would be utter disrespect!) You pass the care of Gamzee off to your Handmaiden (reminding her of his feeding and sleeping times lest he becomes anxious or grumpy) and assure your pages that you shall return to them soon. With that out of the way, you approach the Infanta.

“We have dawdled long enough, my dear.” you say, “Tonight, we complete your education as Infanta.”

Upon leaving the fastblock, you cannot ignore the forlorn look Gamzee gives Feferi. Feferi does not spare him a glance, which pleases you. The Infanta’s exile in the north has _finally_ taught her the position of her blood.

Alone, Feferi and you walk the halls and ascend the winding stairs leading into the highest stem of the hive-palace. There are no scones or oil lamps here, as the darkness is more message than hindrance—letting all those know this place is secret and forbidden. Even those who constructed it were bricked up within the walls, lest they divulge what they know of the mysteries inside. You have no light to guide you, only your memories.

In the darkness, Feferi closely follows. Her heels sharply click against the stone steps and their noise is another reminder of her failure as a proper Infanta. She is minuscule compared to you and not even the height of her ridiculous boots could change such a thing.

“My most holy servant and heir,” you begin, “tomorrow brings with it the end of this sweep and the beginning of the next. Such a holy day is cause for ceremony and celebration. Wouldst thou not consider dressing properly for such a time? Such skin-clinging attire dost not befit an Infanta. Why the servants may have the most improper and profane things concerning thy personage if thou art wearing such… _jumpsuits_ in their presence.”

“I told ya already,” Feferi growls, “I can’t be wearing no frilly dresses when I’m working wit’ machines. They’ll get tangled in somefin.”

“And thy manner of _speech_ , Feferi!” you sigh, shaking your nugbone. “We are ashamed to know that my Infanta speaks in the ill-mannered tongue of a heathen foreigner and continues to deface the Queen’s Alternian with her words.”

Feferi says nothing. You look over your shoulder and the Infanta stares at you. In her flinty eyes is a promise of a wretched future: of trolls no longer holding the land and its queen sacred, of strict stratifications and violence, of wise highbloods no longer caring for their dullard lowbloods. You see only hatred, like a wild lusus hunting its prey. 

No. You must never let Feferi’s reign come to pass.

“So be it, child.” You say, “Dress as thy wills it, for thou art not a servant but queenly in thy own right by blood.”

At the highest level of the hivestem and is a heavy wooden door, painted vivid fuchsia. Such paints had been laboriously applied, harvested from the previous Infantas who failed to hatch or survive molting. Within this block, you shall give the Infanta your last sermon before you part until the ritual of the new sweep.

Inside, you light the oil lamp that casts your queendom’s treasures in dull yellow light. There are wood carvings of your beauty, the vellum and pigment illustrations of your arrival in the new land, the clay and sand frescos of discovering the Mother Grub and the jadeblood pygmies, and painted pottery showing the founding of the queendom and allying with East Beforus.

You sweep a hand at a blank wall, plastered flat for future adornment. “This shall be for when we have our holy war against the northern barbarians,” you say.

Feferi looks around the block and snorts.

“An’ not a thing for the rocket launch.” She says, “One o’ the biggest accomplishments _any_ troll has _ever_ made an’ ya can’t be bothered to _mention_ it.” She shoves her hands in her pockets, “Even if—an’ this is a _big fucking if_ —ya gut me, my rocket’ll still launch. The space-age is already startin’, wit’ o’ wit’out ya.”

If Feferi is trying to make a point, it is lost on you. You can hardly understand the child through that barbaric accent.

“If thy insist upon it, our child.” You turn to a wood statue, standing on a stone display. “This figure has a long history entrenched in it. It is one of the few items to survive our homeland, and dates back to--”

“I ain’t a child!” Feferi shouts, speaking over you. You turn to scold her but she continues, “None o’ us are children _or_ yo’ servants! I’m nine sweeps old for God’s sake!” You stare at her and she slowly corrects herself from between clenched fangs, “For… _Mother’s_ sake, I mean.”

“Sounds like someone is cranky from the long trip from the border.” You reach into your belt and offer her soma tablets. “Luckily, we are always prepared to care for thy little ones.”

Feferi glares at the tablets but you do not take your eyes off her until she consumes them. She is an awful, disobedient child, but she never turns away soma. _No one_ turns away soma. You do not care for physical punishments, but you also cannot spare the rod. It is the burden of being a most sacred queen, after all. 

“We are well aware of the lack of care thy has for church, Feferi,” you say, “but thou must always remember to carry yourself not simply as the queen but custodian to the nation. Our blood is tyrian, that of the shade shared with Father Moon and we are of water nature like Mother Gl’bgoyl. Everyone is below us, equal before our wisdom as our hatched servants. Without our close and loving guidance, all would fall into blazing ruin.”

It is a story every troll in the queendom knows, told to them at bedtime and then reiterated when they rise from the cocoon. All trolls are equal but only before your sacredness.

Feferi says nothing, but you are not surprised. You shall only feel relief once Mother has consumed Feferi’s still warm corpse.

* * *

The remainder of the night is filled with the tedium of being queen—overseeing that laws are followed, doling out rations, and allocating funds for different causes. It is a burden, but it must be done so all your servants are treated fairly. Once all the work is out of the way, you begin planning for the eve of the incoming new sweep. Entertainment must be hired, soma produced for the guests, and food prepared in the most splendid of ways.

After the rigors of planning and arranging, all you wish to do at the end of the night is relax in your arboretum with your charge and your Handmaiden. You sit under the shade of your favorite tubeflora, the sharp-leaf-with-red-berries. (Here, you must always keep an eye on your charge for the red berries, although beautiful, are deadly poisonous). You have sent the pages away, letting your Handmaiden tend to your every need.

“Tell us, my lovely Handmaiden,” you say as the jadeblood refills your clay wine container, “how long have you served us?”

“Since upon hatching, my queen,” says your Handmaiden, “for all serve Her Majesty.”

“Yes, but in sweeps, dear!” Even jadebloods can be prone to simplicity.

Your Handmaiden blinks slowly, no doubt running the numbers in her head. “It has been 110 sweeps, your holiness.”

“110! Why, that’s nearly at the end of your lifespan, I believe.” You say, “My dear, we shall certainly miss thy when thou must pass on to Father! It shall be painful for us to hire another to arrange our nightly tasks, corral our pages, care for the new Infanta, and oversee the maintenance of the arboretum.”

“Your Majesty has always honored me.” your Handmaiden says, “When thou had been chosen me for as thy page troll instead of thy inner sanctum, I had felt the blessing of Mother upon me. And when I became too old to be thy page troll, thou graced me with the position of Handmaiden. Truly, thou shalt always be a kind and most beloved queen.”

Your Handmaiden bows deeply, keeping her eyes strictly to the ground. You raise her head, smiling down upon her.

“I shall be certain that when thy passes on, thy shall be honored as a general or minister shall be.” you say, “Thy shall not let thy body molder in the ground to be nutrition for the flora. Thy body shall be given to the embrace of Mother and thy spirit to Father. Thou shalt always dwell in Father’s kingdom, eternally.”

There are tears in your Handmaiden’s eyes but she lowers her head again. “You honor me, my Queen.” She reiterates, voice barely above a whisper.

It is the highest honor you could give any troll, but you always give the best for those that serve you well. You have lived long enough to know that other trolls shall never last as long as you. You must treasure them while you can and make their short lives pleasant.

* * *

The arrival of new sweep eve is greeted as all holy days are—bells toll every hour and the street is full of prayer. Little noise is made on such nights, for your citizens remain inside their hives and all business are shuttered. The most faithful await outside the gates of your hive-palace, kneeling upon the ground in group prayer as they wait out their fast—for no food shall be served to the populous until the ceremony is complete. For the elderly who cannot take such long periods without consumption, there is water and salted herbs.

While the masses pray outside your gates, there is a feast in your fastblock. Woolbeasts and beefgrubs fattened for the occasion are sacrificed and roasted, along with fish and other foods profane to those who are not moon-blooded like you or in your cabinet. As you eat from the banquet of roasted meats and vegetables, you enjoy the entertainment—purpleblood jugglers, brownblood singers, and blind musicians. You eat and drink libations of East Beforan wine and have some soma so you can _truly_ feel the vibrations of the music upon your fins, just as you would underwater.

Feferi is not present and you couldn’t be happier.

Gamzee is in his proper place on the floor next to you. Once he’s taken his soma, you sneak him a few slices of beefgrub. Yes, you are violating a taboo, but it is a holy day and you worry for him. Without the soma, you’re certain the violence of tonight’s ritual would traumatize him. He’s going to dearly miss the Infanta. Perhaps you should get him a playmate? Yes, now that you think about it Gamzee could do dearly with someone younger—someone who shall not have much hold over him as the Infanta.

Perhaps a limeblood for a change? Yes, a limeblood! You haven’t culled one of those in _ages_. You should also begin training another jadeblood as your next Handmaiden as well.

As if thoughts could summon the jadeblood, your Handmaiden walks into the fastblock.

“Your Majesty,” she says, “it is time.”

Your rise from the table and nearly fall over, only aided by pages to keep you upright. Your meal must have been heavier than you predicted but you don’t fret. As you stumble through the halls, you only feel more confident about your victory. After all, there is no way for such short, fat troll as Feferi could triumph over your might! And Feferi is not the _first_ Infanta you have triumphed over either!

Still, you are rather woozy as you enter the inner sanctum. The maidens do most of the work—painting your face, giving you the jug of jade-wine as you take more soma. Yes, you’re overdoing it a bit but the lucidity of the tablets helps things along. Drenched in soma, you are sensitive to the urgings of your blood—the call of the ritual.

Tonight you shall spill blood not for Mother but for _Father_.

The soma is strong tonight. As you enter the church amphitheater, the faces of your servants are blurring together—making waves of black and grey with the orange-red swipe of horns. Yes, everyone is equal now. Equal before you. Everyone is here and you wave to your people, only for your Handmaiden to turn you to the side.

Across the arena, Feferi is approaching. She holds the traditional trident, still wearing her ridiculous clothes and still balking at the traditions you hold dear.

 _This cannot continue,_ whispers a voice and you know it to be Mother, _This dawn she dies._

“Yes.” You whisper. Your Handmaiden looks at you but you do not acknowledge it. No one knows how Mother speaks to you. No one would believe it, but you know everything Mother knows.

The amphitheater is vibrating and the air is both humid and icy cold. The arena is glazed in fuchsia moonlight and you look above you, into the night sky, into Feferi’s beloved void. High above you and gazing down upon your queen is Father—the single moon in the sky, fuchsia as your blood and closer to the land than ever. Even with the approaching dawn, he is still beautiful. You raise your hands to him.

“Oh, Father! Thou graces thy daughters and their servants with thy presence!” you cry, “Guardian of the offerings of all Beforus, founder of cities, renewer of sanctuaries, glorious day, of supreme command. Without thee, there is no glory! Without thee, we would not exist! We stand before thou in judgment, for now, thy must determine our future! Choose between thy daughters, Father! For upon the morn, thou shalt only have one as we guide ourselves into the new era!” 

The amphitheater echoes with the soft _thuds_ of trolls fainting from fervor. The prayers grow louder, and your gills are vibrating with the noise. Undulating with the waves of sound. The air is too hot but still, you are feeling so cold. It’s a strange sensation but you do not wish to discard it. Not yet. Not when you are so close to Father and Mother.

Feferi moves in closer, now only six feet from you. Your Handmaiden goes to the dais and retrieves an oil lamp, resting on a velvet jade-colored pillow. The lamp is shaped like a curvaceous troll with multiple heftsacks and stored within it is the sacramental jade-oils, only allowed to be held by yourself or the Handmaiden.

Your Handmaiden douses your trident in holy oils.

“Let this oil distilled from the blood of the most sacred servants of Her Majesty be a witness to the spirits.” your Handmaid says. She then walks to Feferi, coating the Infanta’s trident. “Let the one whose blood is spilt here be declared unholy and tainted by mortality. Let the one who stands be declared holy and blessedly immortal. So shall it be.”

The jade oils slide down your trident and in the moonlight, they’re a garish color. It's hot. Too hot! You swallow and there’s a pain in your throat. Acidic. The soupy waves of the amphitheater turn more liquid—more than you’re comfortable with. Something is burning and the world is turning runny, melting like wet clay into colors you cannot understand. You open your mouth, but words are garbled. You can barely hold onto your trident.

What is happening?

Your chest hurts. Why does it hurt? You look down and see metal has sunk inside of you—three prongs have pierced you and it _hurts._ You shout or try to, but only a gargle comes out. Fuchsia blood dribbles from your lips, from your aching lungs and chest.

But you are not dead. No. Not yet.

Feferi forces you to the ground, eyes boring into you. There is nothing but hatred in her eyes and she forces the trident deeper. Your veins are on fire and all you can see are those hateful eyes.

And still, you are not dead.

Then Feferi leaves you, the trident still in your chest.

How are you not dead? Your chest is burning and everything is hurting and liquid around you, but you are not dead. You wish you were quickly dead; that you were based upon the rock like a helpless animal or a child, but no. You are dying of a fiery poison and still, you can hear. You can see, although the world is slopping and runny and _hideous_.

You hear Maryam declare Feferi the victor—the new queen of Beforus. Feferi does not wait to take charge, does not bother with the ritual or pomp that you have so beheld. She’s barking orders, ignoring the wails of your servants. 

The disestablishment of culling. The end to your ‘holyspectrum’. The end of so many things.

No! _No_!

Everything hurts. It hurts beyond your mind’s understanding of pain. You want to move, want to yank the culling fork out of your chest and crawl to safety but you can’t. Your lungs are filling up with more blood. You need to let someone know what’s happening—you’re betrayed, drugged, poisoned, _cheated_ of your queendom and rightful place! You look to the grotto. There has to be someone— _anyone_ —who realizes what is happening to you. Certainly, someone can save you!

Your eyes are rolling around in your skull. You can see your ministers leave the first row, beginning the parade of acknowledging the new queen. They see your eyes moving, you struggling to breathe, but then continue onward. Even Vantas does not spare you a glance as he kneels before Feferi, pledging his new loyalty. 

They have awaited your downfall…but why? Were you not a loving queen? Did you not treat every troll with kindness and fairness?

You were a fool to trust them. Any of them! 

A familiar shape walks across the arena. Gamzee. His eyes are not upon the ground and his posture is no longer slumped and mincing. No, he is standing tall and proud. He walks over to you.

Yes! _Yes_! You should have known it would be Gamzee to save you. Faithful Gamzee. Loyal Gamzee. He must remember all the care you gave him. How you made sure he never went hungry or was never lonely or afraid. How you always kept him warm during the day. No troll could forget such love you showered upon them!

Gamzee stands over you and he…smiles. It’s the first smile he’s ever given you without soma or coaxing. Then he turns his head and spits out something wet and green onto the ground beside you. _Soma_ , your sluggish, melting mind realizes.

“See you in hell, bitch,” he says.

Then he picks you up off the ground and with all his strength, tosses you off the cliff.

The last thing you see are the faces of Feferi, Gamzee, and your Handmaiden standing at the edge of the cliff and looking down at you. All watching you fall. Smiling. Gamzee even waves to you, still smiling his sweet grin.

The fall to the water is not pleasant. Your body crashes against the jagged rocks on the way through, striking everything as you plummet toward the gaping maw of Mother. Then comes the searing pain of daylight before you are grasped by a tendril. You feel your ribcage snap, piercing lungs and organs. There is cold icy water and then darkness crashes upon you.

Its…cold.

Everything is cold.

Are you dead?

No.

_No._

_No!_

You can’t be dead. _You can’t be!_ You’re immortal. You are the moon-blooded queen, the Despisal, the ruler of Central Beforus. You came from a faraway land to find a better life for you and your people. You carved a queendom from the remains of long-dead empires. You are eternal!

**You are not.**

Who is that? You do not know that voice. It is not Mother with her gentle whispers. No, this must be the work of the poison your conspirators gave you. (How did they do it? Was it in the wine? The food? The soma? No, soma never betrays you!)

“I am not dead.” You say. You can’t move. There is water around you in this icy darkness. When did things get so wet and cold?

**You’re dead.**

“I am _not dead_!” you scream at the wet darkness, “I am Limnad Peixes, queen of Central Beforus! I shall not be defeated by some…some heretic child!”

**You’ve been dead for thousands of years.**

There is blood on your chest. There are three gaping holes where your vascular pump once was. (When did that get there?) You try to staunch the bleeding but there is fuchsia upon your hands, sticky and refusing to come off no matter how hard you scrub.

“I can’t.” You clench your teeth, “I won’t leave. _I won’t leave!_ ”

You’re crying. You’re crying like a child again when your custodian punished you for eating extra rations or not speaking like a proper queen.

 _“Thou canst not make me go!”_ you scream in defiance of the darkness.

**We can. We will.**

There is a shadow in front of you. Is it Feferi? Gamzee? Your Handmaiden? No, it is an unknown troll. They remind you of Vantas, but their eyes are wrong—all wrong! This troll’s eyes are bright red, the color of hideous death. Of monstrous mutations. You’ve never seen such a troll before. You scream for help from anyone—Mother, Father, anyone who will still obey your command—but the monster is merciless. He plunges the knife into you, adding a gouge to the wounds Feferi inflicted upon you.

And your bright glowing life is snuffed out again and you know only nothingness---- --- -- -


	5. alone at last

**== >???: Be Feferi **

“Feferi, do you hear me?” Eridan asks.

The searing pain in your veins and chest has yet to fade. Your dress is covered with blood—no, not blood. It’s a plastic, artificial odor that your mind still registers: acrylic. Paint. _It's fake, it's all fake,_ you realize but still, you’re gasping. Your hand is knotted in Eridan’s shirt but you aren’t clawing at him. You’re not fighting him, only struggling from the shock of everything falling upon you. Kanaya, Gamzee, and Meenah are looking down at you—studying your face with mounting anxiety.

“Fef?” Eridan says, “Fef?”

“Yes.” You whisper. Your voice is so hoarse and it hurts to speak. Were you screaming? And for how long? “I…I ‘m here.” you cough.

“Where are you?” Eridan asks.

Fuchsia-tinged water is floating around you. The sun is directly above, casting down a noonday glare and heat.

“The lake.” You whisper.

“What do you hear?”

The calls of local wildlife—songs of the tricolored heron and black-necked beakbeast. You only know the names from Kanaya and you watching nature documentaries late into the night, half-awake as an elderly Young British narrator speaks on the New Jack wetlands.

“The birds.”

“What do you see?”

Kanaya looking down at you with tears in her eyes. There are no bruises on her this time. Was she frightened by your screaming, made anxious by _her_ behavior, or is she daring to be hopeful at what comes next?

You reach and touch your matesprit’s face, wiping away the tears. It feels like you’re lifting fifty pounds. You’re so tired. Kanaya grasps your hand, holding you close. All you can think about is how she has always been there for you, even before you were officially together. There is nothing but birdsong and your matesprit gazing upon you.

There is no more fear you need to keep buried. No more pains and nightmares to smother with daily tasks; always keeping busy unless _she_ comes to the surface in a moment of weakness. _She_ has hidden inside your mind like dead leaves at the bottom of the pool…but there is nothing now. Inside you is a clear emptiness.

You’re completely alone.

“She’s gone…” you swallow. Your throat could be bleeding from overuse but you don’t care. You’re struggling as you hold onto Kanaya’s skirt. “She’s gone. _She’s gone!”_

Kanaya wraps her arms around you, lifting you into her arms. It must be difficult, but neither of you care. You don’t know what to do besides cry in relief.

You’re free.

You’re finally free.


End file.
